


A Christmas of Spoons

by Jenetica



Series: Scotty Doesn't Know [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: (there is no other Lydia Martin), Age Difference, BAMF Lydia Martin, But He Gets Better, Christmas, Christmas Party, Drug Use, F/M, Happy Ending, Holidays, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Mental Health Issues, Psychological Trauma, Secret Crush, melissa mccall in an entirely too tempting santa costume, stiles is a little broken, which is obviously a real tag and not something i made up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-07
Updated: 2020-12-07
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:15:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27926602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jenetica/pseuds/Jenetica
Summary: “Nice Santa dress,” Stiles says lightly, turning away from Melissa to pick up his freezer bag and carry it to the counter. He needs to calm his heart rate down before someone in the other room notices. “Very, uh, festive.”Which is his discreet way of saying,I want to bend you over the counter, flip up your skirt, and give you my North Pole until we both get snowy. Because apparently, despite not seeing her for months, and despite his best efforts to move on from his stupid crush, Stiles isstillinto her.
Relationships: Allison Argent/Scott McCall, Melissa McCall/Stiles Stilinski
Series: Scotty Doesn't Know [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2044918
Comments: 8
Kudos: 31





	A Christmas of Spoons

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MargaretKire](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MargaretKire/gifts).



> This story is part of the "Scotty Doesn't Know" series. It chronologically takes place two and a half years before "What the Hell is This, Baywatch?" but is more like a fun holiday flashback than anything else. Can 100% be read as a standalone. If read in conjunction with Baywatch, this flashback will be spoiler-free after Chapter 10 (not yet posted). 
> 
> Warnings for references of drug use, mental health issues, trauma from the events of (kinda sorta, mostly botched) canon, and a handful of terrible Christmas puns. Because, you know, being terrorized by hunters, werewolves, and a demonic spirit fucks you up a LITTLE bit more than the showrunners seem to think, but WHATEVER I'M NOT BITTER. (Heads up, I'm definitely bitter.)
> 
> Dedicated to [MargaretKire](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MargaretKire) because I totally planned to be productive this weekend and instead spent ALL of yesterday reading his/her/their _gorgeous_ story [The Werewolf Companion](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19353745/chapters/46044850) and, subsequently, the rest of his/her/their work. MargaretKire, thank you for bonding with me so hard yesterday, I hope you enjoy this little holiday snippet!
> 
> Beta'd, as always, by the ineffable [iFlail](iflailfic.tumblr.com). Love you, bud. Proofread by the incredible man the Baywatch readers know as Mr. Fiancé, for obvious reasons. Also love you, but like, with my ladybits AND my heart. And, I suppose, the rest of me.

College was both exactly what he expected it to be, and also nothing like he expected it to be. Back when he was a kid, he used to play on the living room floor while his mom folded laundry to episodes of _Gilmore Girls_. He would watch the scenes at Yale, with all its old buildings and old-money furniture, and think, _that’s college_.

Maybe that was some colleges, but not Irvine. Irvine was a sleek, modern, mini-metropolis of buildings constructed around a circular courtyard. Everything was glass walls, brushed metal fixtures, and stylishly uncomfortable furniture. Things a werewolf—or worse—could destroy with the flick of its wrist. Stiles tried to find it beautiful and not dangerous.

His unease grew as he met his roommates, then the girls next door, then everyone else on his floor. They all seemed like happy, normal college kids, and Stiles wanted to find them refreshing, but instead they terrified him. Without Scott and his trusty nose by his side, Stiles couldn’t know who was human, or who could be trusted. His lie detector was half a state away, and Stiles had never felt so helplessly mundane.

His nightmares, which had gone away for the first couple weeks while he adjusted to classes, came back by the second week of September. He was moved to a single shortly thereafter, in the dorm on top of the campus mental health clinic. It was as unsubtle a hint as the school could give him, but he couldn’t take advantage of it. If he tried to be honest to a therapist, they’d lock him up. This was a battle he’d have to fight alone.

Until he wasn’t alone. For his third Chem lab assignment, he was paired with Ivy, a quiet girl with a nose ring and a Zelda tattoo on her forearm. She took one look at him and knew. “Insomnia or night terrors?”

Her eyes were warm and brown, sharp enough to stir something low in his gut. “Both.”

That weekend, he went with her to a party off campus full of juniors, seniors, and people who didn’t even go to Irvine. Ivy gave him a drink that she said would make him sleep all night. He drank it, and he did. The next thing he knew, it was morning, and they were spooning on the couch in the party house. It was the best Stiles had felt in months.

But then the nightmares got worse as people around campus started decorating for Halloween. Stiles felt stupid for being triggered by cartoons of witches and vampires, of all things, but they reminded him that real witches and vampires looked like everyone else and could be anywhere. 

At the next party, Ivy snorted cocaine. She slid her thumb along the leftover dust and pressed it to Stiles’ lips, her brown eyes hot and heavy-lidded. He opened his lips to her, and her eyes got hotter. Late that night, back in his dorm room, he opened his lips a second time, and she burned him from the inside out.

October slipped by in a blur of classes, parties, and clandestine moments with Ivy. Whenever the nightmares came back, she found him a new drug or cocktail of drugs to help him sleep. His grades slipped, and he stopped responding in the pack chat, but he didn’t care. The more time he spent high, the less time he spent hiding from the monsters under his bed. 

But, of course, eventually the nightmares came back, this time to stay. Ivy tried to be understanding, and Stiles loved her for it, but after he woke up and lunged at her, still half-asleep and thinking she was Peter Hale, she broke up with him. Stiles took more of the drugs, angry and ashamed and wanting to sleep through how much he was hurting, and his nightmares got impossibly worse. Suddenly, he couldn’t wake up to escape them anymore, and he wasn’t running away from the monsters in his dreams, he _was_ them. _His_ hands, tipped in gory claws, holding his pencil in Calculus after four sleepless nights. Blood on _his_ teeth in the dining hall, after biting what he thought was a muffin. _His_ bloodshot eyes searing with red, staring back at him in the mirror.

He booked an appointment with the mental health clinic and flushed all the drugs down the toilet. It wasn’t a perfect set-up—he had to speak in metaphor, and he knew his therapist would eventually call him out on it—but it felt good regardless. He’d never spoken openly about how fucking terrified he was of _everything_ before, because who would he tell? Everyone in his life who knew what he was going through was already dealing with their own trauma over it. He couldn’t put his shit on them, and even if he did, he didn’t think it would help.

Or so he thought. His therapist—henceforth known as Thomas, because that was his name—believed that while it was noble of him to choose to protect his loved ones from his problems, it was also highly paternalistic. He explained it using a spoon analogy: Everyone has a finite number of spoons at the start of each day, and they choose how to spend those spoons. Certain things like stress or illness can change the number of spoons you have, but it doesn’t change how you’re allowed to spend them. It was possible, Thomas explained, that the people in Stiles’ life would want to spend some of their spoons on him, if given the option. It was even possible they were already spending the spoons on him, in ways that didn’t help the way he needed it.

Stiles wasn’t quite sure what spoons had to do with anything, and he seriously doubted anyone else in the pack was all that worried about him, but he agreed to try. Which is why, halfway through his increasingly nerve-wracking drive back to Beacon Hills for winter break, he stopped at a grocery store and bought a package of plastic spoons. 

(He knew the spoons were a metaphor—he’s not an idiot—but for some reason, having the cardboard box of spoons rattling away in the passenger seat made him feel better about driving back to the literal hell hole that was his hometown. And their handles made for good chew toys, once his anxiety kicked his oral fixation into overdrive.)

Which brings him here, to the main streets of Beacon Hills, gnawing on the end of a spoon and taking in the familiar spirals of Christmas lights on all the light posts. This semester marks the longest period of time Stiles has ever been out of Beacon Hills, and for some reason, he expected it to change as much as he had. But no, GroundsZero Café’s OPEN sign is still missing a P, and the junkyard on Calle Vista Way still has the same beat-up eighties Cadillac parked by the street. 

Stiles crunches through the last of the handle of the spoon. He drops the broken chunks into his cup holder to join the four other spoons he’s already decimated.

He spots the high school coming up down the street and grabs another spoon.

The Sheriff gets emotional when he answers the door, and whatever nerves Stiles has vanish. They hug like they haven’t seen each other in years. As far as Stiles is concerned, that might as well be true. They both notice how the Sheriff’s arms reach a little further than they used to, almost looping all the way around Stiles’ underfed body, but they both ignore it. The Sheriff bustles him inside, shows off his best attempts at decorating (which are better than Stiles expected them to be, if not good), and leads Stiles to the tree.

The Sheriff gestures to the still-packed boxes of ornaments, looking embarrassed. “I thought maybe we could—”

“Yeah, Dad,” Stiles says, nodding and trying not to get emotional himself. Decorating the tree used to be a tradition in their household. One of Mom’s favorite events of the year. “Yeah, I’d love to.”

They make hot chocolate with cinnamon and a splash of half-and-half, the way Mom used to, and start in on the tree. The Sheriff makes a token protest when Stiles reaches for the boxes, insisting that they could start tomorrow, after Stiles got some rest. As if he doesn’t know that sitting in the car for hours makes Stiles antsy. Stiles rolls his eyes and puts him on lights-untangling duty.

They swap stories of their time apart as they work. The Sheriff tells him about The Great Thanksgiving Shopping Cart Heist of ‘17, and Stiles tells him about getting corrosive acid on his favorite plaid and having to go back to his dorm shirtless. It’s lighthearted, good fun until Stiles realizes he’s run out of stories. He can’t tell his dad about the cocaine, the ketamine, or Ivy. He can’t talk about how he’s lucky to have passed American Lit because he ran out of his Adderall pills for the month right before his final paper was due, trying to stay awake as much as possible to avoid his dreams.

So he stops telling stories and starts asking questions. “So wait, what happened to Helen, from the courthouse? Didn’t you two go on a date last month?”

The Sheriff buys it for a while, but a cop knows when he’s being interrogated. As soon as Stiles places the last ornament and they make themselves comfortable on the couch, the Sheriff crosses his arms, all business. “Alright, son. So how is school? Really.”

Stiles inwardly groans. The jig is up. He doesn’t want to do this tonight. He’s not sure he wants to do this _ever_. But he knows that tone, and he knows those crossed arms. He sighs. “Okay. But hold on, I need to get something.”

He runs out to his Jeep and, firmly telling himself that he’s not being stupid, he grabs the spoons.

The Sheriff eyes the box suspiciously when Stiles sits back down, but doesn’t say anything. Stiles pulls a spoon from the box and rubs his thumb in the scoop of it. He can do this. He can be honest.

“What do you know about Spoon Theory?”

Whatever the Sheriff is expecting Stiles to say, that’s obviously not it. “Spoon Theory? Is this a physics thing?”

“That’s String Theory,” Stiles says, smiling. “No. It’s… a psychological thing.”

The Sheriff tucks his chin to his chest, reading between the lines. “You’re in therapy?”

Stiles stares down at the spoon. _Be honest_. “Yeah.”

The Sheriff stews that over for a second, then nods. “Good.”

Stiles breathes a sigh of relief. One hurdle down. “Yeah. So okay. Spoon Theory.” 

He explains what Thomas told him, about how people only have so much energy to give, and how they have to be selective about those things that deserve a spoon. And, because he’s Stiles Stilinski and researches everything, he explains the origins of Spoon Theory, how it has revolutionized the conversation on chronic illness, and how professionals from a variety of disciplines have started using Spoon Theory or its analogues to engage meaningfully with the limits of human motivation.

By the time he’s done, the Sheriff is giving him a fond, exasperated look. “You know, I’d almost forgotten about how good you are at not answering my questions.”

Stiles grimaces. “Sorry.”

“No,” the Sheriff says, shaking his head. “No, I… I missed it.”

Stiles pinks, pleased. “Oh. Okay. Well, okay. So… I need you to take this spoon.”

He holds the spoon out to the Sheriff, who takes it hesitantly. “Okay…?”

“You have a spoon,” Stiles declares. He knows how foolish he must sound, talking about spoons like they’re diamonds or something, but he soldiers on. “Do you want to give it to me?”

The Sheriff furrows his brow, confused. Once he puts two and two together, his face falls. “Stiles, of course I want to know how you’re doing. We don’t have to do this with _spoons_ , son. You can tell me anything.”

Stiles fidgets awkwardly. “But do you want to give me your spoon?”

The Sheriff sighs and plays along. “Yes, Stiles. I want to know about your life, and I want to devote the energy it takes to have this conversation. You have my attention, and you have my spoon.”

Stiles takes the offered spoon and stares down at it, feeling overwhelmed. Thomas was right: Maybe Stiles doesn’t have to go this alone anymore.

“School is hard,” he says in a small voice. “Being away is… it’s hard.”

The Sheriff takes a moment to respond. “If the classes are too much, or the distance… there are schools closer. Easier.”

Stiles shakes his head. “No, not the classes,” he clarifies. “The classes are easy. It’s… I have nightmares.” 

“Oh.” The Sheriff shifts on the couch. “From… before?”

Stiles nods, continuing to stare down at his lap. God, this is hard. He rubs at the spoon in his hands and wills himself to talk more. (Which is the first time he’s ever had that particular desire for himself, but he knows if he cracks the joke, the Sheriff will get disappointed, and then this will be even harder. He can do this.)

“I can’t sleep without dreaming about the Nogitsune. Or the alphas, or the Nemeton, or Gerard, or any of it.” Stiles scratches his nail over the textured plastic of the spoon handle. “And without a small army of supercharged hound dogs around me all the time, I feel like anyone could be a threat.”

The Sheriff absorbs that for a second. “That sounds awful, son.”

Stiles’ next breath is uneven. “It is, Dad. It really is.”

After that, the conversation is easier. Stiles carefully avoids telling his dad about the drugs, but he tells him about moving dorms and losing his friends, about how Ivy helped him feel better sleeping at night, but then eventually his baggage became too much for her to handle. He talks about how he spiraled, how he spent days awake to avoid falling asleep, and about how he wound up in therapy because he realized he would drive himself into the ground if he went on much longer. The Sheriff stays quiet for most of it, speaking just enough to prompt Stiles along. 

“And now I’m here,” Stiles finishes, spreading his hands out in fanfare. “Trying to be more honest.”

“With spoons,” the Sheriff adds. Stiles looks up for the first time and sees amusement playing around the corners of the Sheriff’s mouth.

“With spoons,” Stiles repeats, smiling gratefully.

The Sheriff blows out a breath. “That’s a hell of a story, kid. And it’s more than a little worrying.”

Stiles nods. “I know. But I’m getting better.”

Or rather, he’s on the first steps of the path that will eventually lead to him getting better. Hopefully. Given how he feels about this talk with the Sheriff, Stiles is optimistic.

The Sheriff grimaces, looking uncomfortable. “If you’re having trouble sleeping, there are pills to help—”

“I’m good,” Stiles cuts him off, shaking his head. Yeah, he’s definitely glad he didn’t tell his dad about the drugs. “I don’t need the pills. I’m fine.”

“Good,” the Sheriff says, looking relieved. “That’s good, those things are poison. I’m proud of you, son. I know this is tough. I’m glad we talked.”

Stiles smiles at him, feeling lighter than he has in a long time. “Yeah. Me too.”

They finish their hot chocolate and take their cups to the kitchen. Before he heads upstairs, Stiles takes the spoon and very carefully balances it on the boughs of the tree.

It’s good to be home.

* * *

Scott is the natural choice for Stiles’ second Spoons Talk™, but when they meet up the day after Stiles’ conversation with the Sheriff, Stiles can’t bring himself to do it. Scott is thrilled to see him, and Stiles is thrilled back, and the mood is all wrong. He doesn’t want to ruin this most epic and joyous reunion with his sob story, and he has the distinct feeling Scott won’t know what to make of the fact that Stiles has a plastic spoon in his pocket. It’ll happen eventually.

Which leaves his other natural second choice, the only other non-hunter human in the pack: Lydia. It’s still weird even after all these years, knowing her well enough to be emotionally vulnerable around her, but if anyone else in the world knows what Stiles is going through, it’s her. 

Not only does she get it, she knows about the spoons. “Of course I know about Spoon Theory, Stiles, I took Social Psychology in September.” 

Because of course she took a semester-long class in a month. Of course she did.

After that, Stiles talks to Boyd, and then Isaac. Boyd tells Erica, who punches Stiles square in the arm just before the first pack get-together of break. “Of course we care about you, asshole. Get out of your head and let us help you, or I’ll sneak into your dorm room and moan really loudly so you have to have awkward conversations with your neighbors.”

Stiles decides not to tell her that he’s already had to have those talks with his neighbors. Ivy could get embarrassingly loud when she wanted to.

Having the pack back together is a balm that he sorely needed, Stiles learns. Judging by the way everyone lingers in Derek’s apartment long after the meeting is over, the rest of the pack feels the same. Derek included. He usually kicks them out, but this time, he puts on _The Grinch_ and pulls out a box of popcorn packets, and their pack meeting turns into a movie night. There’s some reorganization so everyone can see the screen, which translates roughly to everyone puppy piling on the floor in front of the couch around Derek’s feet. Stiles winds up wedged between Scott and Erica, who curls around his arm and gives him a meaningful look that says, _See, I’m nice, jackass._

It’s pleasant, sitting with all of his friends, enjoying a peaceful moment together. No, scratch that, it’s wonderful. Heartwarming, even. Especially when Stiles realizes, halfway through the movie, that Derek is murmuring the Grinch’s lines under his breath. 

* * *

The pack Christmas party is an event they all planned together at the end of the summer. As a show of diplomacy for the holiday, all the parents were invited—even Chris Argent (which shocked everyone, including Chris Argent). Stiles absentmindedly wonders if Melissa will be there, realizing he hasn’t seen her yet this break. Derek gruffly assigns each pack member a dish to bring, and Stiles is assigned ‘crostinis.’ He has no idea what those are, but they sound fun.

(He ends up disappointed when he looks them up and learns that they’re those little open faced sandwiches where the bread is so crunchy it scratches the roof of his mouth. Stiles takes it back, he _hates_ crostinis. But he makes them anyway, because he’s nice like that.)

He's one of the last to arrive, since the Sheriff got a call from the station at the last minute. He was left to package up all the crostinis on his own, so by the time he arrives, the party is in full swing. He lifts a hand when Scott calls out a greeting from the living room and heads into the kitchen to unpack and plate up his satan-sandwiches. 

That’s when he sees her.

Her back is turned to him, arm extended up to grab a bowl from a cabinet she can’t quite reach. She’s in a red dress with white, fluffy trim on the sleeves and around the hem of the skirt—the temptingly, teasingly short skirt that hugs the curve of her hips and drops into perfect pleats around her thighs. She groans and stretches further, and the skirt lifts up just a little bit more on her right side, exposing more tan, perfect skin. An inch or two higher, and he would be able to see the delicate curve of her ass. He drags his eyes down her legs, taking in the white knee high stockings and the short black boots and stifling a moan. She looks perfect, like something out of Stiles’ most secret wet dreams. 

He must make some kind of sound, because she spins around. He watches her skirt flare out, exposing even more skin on her legs, and has a moment of despair before—

“Stiles! Sweetheart, oh my god! It’s so good to see you!”

 _Shit._ This is _not_ good.

Melissa beams and strides toward him, wrapping him up in a hug. “I’ve missed you!”

Stiles drops the freezer bag to the ground by his feet and returns the hug, bending slightly at the waist to make it an easier reach. (And to hide his reaction to her ridiculously sexy outfit, because _what the fuck?_ )

“Hi, Mrs. McCall,” he says, clearing his throat when his voice comes out reedy. “Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas!” she replies, pulling away from him. The front of the dress is even worse than the back—the top scoops low enough on her chest that he can see the seductive crease where her breasts push together and narrows to a waistband with a comically oversized black belt. And she’s wearing a Santa hat, too, perched lopsided over her gorgeous, luscious dark curls. It should look silly, but on her, it makes her a Christmas present Stiles is itching to unwrap.

“Nice Santa dress,” he says lightly, turning away from her to pick up his freezer bag and carry it to the counter. He needs to calm his heart rate down before someone in the other room notices. “Very, uh, festive.”

Which is his discreet way of saying, _I want to bend you over the counter, flip up your skirt, and give you my North Pole until we both get snowy._ Because apparently, despite not seeing her for months, and despite his best efforts to move on from his stupid crush, he is _still_ into her. 

Melissa snorts. “Thanks. I lost a bet.”

Stiles swallows hard—someone put her up to wearing a sexy Santa costume? Who? And why does that hurt? “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” she says dryly. “Pro-tip, Derek knows _way_ too much about the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade, and he is _ruthless_ about it.”

Stiles sets the bag on the counter harder than he’d intended. “Derek, _our_ Derek? You two talk?”

He has no right to be jealous, he reminds himself. He’s been waiting for the day when Melissa would find someone; he’s even wished for it sometimes, an executioner’s axe to finally destroy his already non-existent chances with her. And he’s trying to move on, himself. If anything, he should be happy for her.

But also… _Derek?_

“Sometimes we talk,” Melissa says breezily. “Mostly, he frowns, and I let him sit on my couch to do it.”

Stiles isn’t sure what to do with that information, but it sounds less like they’re sleeping together, and more like Derek has taken to lurking in her house, since he can’t lurk around places like Stiles’ bedroom anymore. Stiles hates how relieved that makes him feel. “Oh.”

He pulls out the serving savers and stacks them on the counter to pull out the serving dish on the bottom of the bag, annoyed with himself for caring so much. He’s supposed to be _over_ her, dammit. This is insane.

”I think it scandalized Mrs. Martin,” Melissa offers. “But what are the holidays for, if not outraging people at parties?”

God, he missed her wit. He wants to kiss her breathless, suck on that sharp tongue of hers until she can’t talk anymore.

He is so _screwed._

“Get them angry, then get them gifts so they can’t yell at you about it,” he says knowledgeably, nodding. He needs to get these evil torture snacks on their plate so he can escape from this kitchen and hide behind Scott for the rest of the party.

“ _You_ get me,” she says, coming to stand next to him. _I wish I could get you_ , he thinks miserably. “Need any help with the crostinis?”

“Am I the _only_ person who didn’t know these things had a name?” he asks, distracted by his dismay. “Like… even _Derek_ knows, and we all know vocab isn’t his strong suit. What memo have I missed?”

“Calm down, there, tiger,” she soothes, grinning. She pats him on the back. “I made the list for Derek.”

“Oh,” he says again. Somehow that doesn’t make him feel any better. He can feel the warmth of her hand on his back even after she removes it. He wonders what he’d have to do to get her to touch him again. “That makes sense.”

He hurriedly arranges the devil-breads on the plate, desperate to get out of the kitchen before he makes a fool of himself. “Okay, I’m going to go serve the masses.”

He almost makes it out the doorway when Melissa stops him. “Wait!”

Damn.

He turns around, trying to hide his impatience. “Yes?”

Melissa looks embarrassed. “Can you… could you help me get that bowl?” She points to the cabinet she’d been reaching for when he walked in. “I’d climb onto the countertop and get it myself, but this damn skirt….” She tugs on the hem in frustration.

Stiles pictures her climbing onto the countertop, skirt riding up to show her underwear when she has to plant a knee on the counter surface to leverage herself up. Knelt on the countertop, her ass would be just about at his face level—the perfect height to tease down her underwear and let him dip his head between her thighs to slide his tongue along her—no, no no no, he can’t think like that, not here, not now.

“No problem,” he says, thankful when his voice comes out relatively even. He sets down the plate and walks over to the cabinet. He expects Melissa to move out of the way, to give him space to stretch up and grab the bowl in question, but she doesn’t. So, instead, Stiles is forced to reach over her, drawing his body painfully close to hers, so close he can feel the heat of her body all along his front and he can smell the gentle sweetness of her hair. 

It would be so easy to….

_No._

Stiles’ fingers close around the edge of the bowl and he drags it out of the cabinet, clunking it down on the counter and fleeing the room. He only just remembers to grab the plate of demon-crusts on the way out. “Okay, bye!”

Feeling embarrassed and awkward, Stiles beelines for the hor d'oeuvres table and drops the plate unceremoniously in the only remaining free space. He needs a drink. He reaches for a cup and, after a quick look around to make sure none of the adults are looking, fills it from the bowl of eggnog marked ‘Parents Only!’ 

The bite of rum is pungent, but he swallows it down greedily. He’s used to hiding his feelings behind inebriation at this point. He just needs the swirl of a good high, and he’ll be fine.

He refills his cup and joins Scott, who’s standing in a circle talking to Deaton and Argent. He catches Scott mid-sentence. “... which is weird, because there’s no other reason for kappas to need to hold water on their heads.”

Stiles raises his eyebrows. “What are you guys talking about?”

“You remember Kira?” Scott asks.

Of course he does. Kira went to Beacon Hills High for a while, right as Stiles was taken over by the Nogitsune. He doesn’t remember much from that time, but he knew that Scott and Kira dated briefly, while Allison was on her ‘I’m a hunter, I kill things’ rampage. Kira left shortly after they got rid of the Nogitsune, when her parents saw Beacon Hills for the pit of doom that it was and moved her to a different school. “The kitsune? Yeah.”

“She’s at Davis,” Scott explains. “We’re friends.”

“Oh wow,” Stiles says, taken aback. “What’s that like? Is Allison okay with it?”

“Is Allison okay with what?” Allison asks, coming over to join their circle.

“Kira,” Scott says, giving her a knowing look.

“Oh,” Allison says delicately. She crosses her arms. “Sure. We were all working our way through some demons that year. Scott’s just happened to come back.”

Stiles knows her well enough to read the spark in her doe-eyed blink. “Oh yeah, you’re _totally_ fine with it.”

She drops the act and grins. “Sorry. All jokes aside, it’s fine. I’ve met her a few times. She’s nice, and I trust Scott. But I also made it very clear that I come from a long line of skilled hunters, and I’m not afraid to defend my loved ones against predators.” She shrugs lightly. “We’ve reached an understanding.”

“That’s my girl,” Argent says, smirking. “I did the same thing when someone from the DiFaglio family set his sights on Vicky. We Argents know how to claim our territory when we need to.”

“I’m _territory_ ,” Scott whispers to Stiles gleefully. He waggles his eyebrows and Stiles coughs out a laugh.

“Good work, bud.”

“This _Kira_ ,” Deaton cuts in smoothly, “knows a significant deal about East Asian mythology, including legends of creatures that could be migrating to the West Coast from any number of international ports of call. She has agreed to work with the Hale Pack to broaden our understanding of these creatures, in exchange for free passage through pack territory and, if need be, asylum for herself and her family.”

“Asylum from what?” Stiles asks, puzzled.

Argent shrugs. “Any number of things. Kitsune can be polarizing creatures.”

It’s precisely the kind of terrifying non-answer Stiles expects from a hunter. He lets it go for now, deciding to pester Scott about it later. Speaking of—

He punches Scott in the arm. “Why is this the first I’m hearing of any of this?”

Scott hesitates, looking uncomfortable. “I told the pack chat, man.”

The pack chat Stiles is in but has been avoiding for months. Guilt washes over Stiles like an icy shower. “Oh.”

“It’s okay,” Scott says bracingly. He gives Stiles an encouraging smile. “You know now.”

Stiles wishes he hadn’t flushed all his drugs down the toilet. He needs to escape this feeling, needs a pill or a shot or a spiked drink, _something_ to dull the pain in his chest. 

But he _did_ flush them. For a reason. So instead, he takes another sip of his eggnog and promises himself to have the Spoons Talk™ with Scott as soon as possible. “Yeah.”

The conversation shifts, and Stiles sneaks away from the circle to go to the bathroom and splash cold water on his face. When he gets back from the bathroom, he surveys the rest of the crowd, looking for a new group to join to distract himself from the temptation of a third cup of eggnog.

Derek’s apartment is beautiful. He’s had the place for a couple years now—a fact that makes Stiles feel older than he should—but every time Stiles visited before this break, the space was empty, impersonal. The hardwood floors and white walls had never changed from the day Derek moved in, as if he refused to leave his mark on them. 

Maybe he was afraid of creating memories that he would one day be forced to lose. Stiles thinks of his barren dorm room and discovers that he sympathizes. When you feel like you’re one slip-up away from death, you don’t tend to find comfort in leaving behind messes for your loved ones to clean up.

But apparently Derek’s gotten over that particular hangup. Stiles hadn’t noticed last time, too caught up in the emotions of feeling accepted and safe with his pack to pay attention to his surroundings, but Derek has decorated the place. Not much—it’s not artfully composed, or aesthetically cluttered—but there are signs of life. A soft-looking rug in the space between the couches and armchairs. A lush, verdant plant overflowing from a large pot by the window. A small, framed picture on the mantle that Stiles can’t clearly see but recognizes from memory: A sprawling family, all dark hair and wide smiles, with a huge, warm home in the background.

It amazes Stiles, how much a few personal touches make the apartment come alive. And he can see the difference in Derek, too. He’s still a tense, guarded bastard, but there’s an easy grace in his movements now. His glances are fleeting, but not darting. His smiles come slow, but curl up like they should instead of baring his teeth like a threat. It’s not just the apartment that feels more alive, it’s Derek, himself.

Stiles resolves to unroll some of his DC Comics posters and pin them up around the dorm room. Maybe a picture of his dad, or of Scott, on his desk. Both. Little reminders of the reasons he should keep fighting the demons in his nightmares.

As Stiles’ eyes sweep over the apartment and the last-minute smattering of Christmas decorations flung about the place, they catch on Melissa. She’s talking to Derek and Erica’s parents, smiling brightly at something Ms. Reyes just said. While he watches, she eats something off her plate and sucks her thumb into her mouth to clean it off. 

Stiles stares blankly at the curve of her lips, how they plump around her finger, cheeks hollowing momentarily while she sucks. It’s easy, effortless, even, to imagine how those lips would look stretched around his dick, dragging along his skin while she pulls her head back, only to glide back down. He would cup the sides of her face, not pressing, not demanding, just holding her, feeling the way the hollows of her cheeks move around the shape of him. He would drag his fingers through her perfect curls and watch in awe as she swallowed his cock down, over and over, getting more eager the more noises he made. 

And oh, he would make noises. He would moan for her, whimper for her, beg for her—she would like that, she would want to know that she’s doing a good job, and Stiles would _deliver_. He would tell her again and again how good she feels, how gorgeous she looks, how perfect the heat of her mouth feels on him. He would tell her things he’s never told anyone, like how he’s wanted this for so long, or how he’s dreamed of this moment since he knew what a blowjob was. And it wouldn’t freak her out or confuse her, it would _excite_ her. She’d _love_ it. She’d moan around his dick, moving faster than before, urging him with her lips and tongue to come in her mouth, because she’d want to taste him, she’d _crave_ it, and—

“Oh my _god_ ,” he hears, before he’s dragged forcibly out of the room. 

He swings his head around, lost, until he sees Erica and the grip she has on his arm. He stumbles after her into Derek’s bedroom, where Lydia is already waiting, arms crossed.

“Stiles,” Lydia greets evenly.

Stiles wrestles his arm away from Erica and rights himself, disgruntled. “Lydia.”

“You need to get yourself under control,” she tells him matter-of-factly.

“You _stink_ ,” Erica adds.

Stiles blinks at them while his brain tries to catch up. As soon as he realizes what they mean, his face gets hot with shame. “I… I don’t—”

“You are thirsting _hard_ right now,” Erica says, entirely disinterested in his bullshit. “And _loudly_.”

Stiles clicks his mouth shut, mortified. “I made noise?”

“You might as well have,” Erica replies, gesturing impatiently. “You’re broadcasting sex hormones like a radio signal right now. All the wolves have noticed.”

Stiles pales. “Including Scott?”

Erica pauses. “Okay, all the _observant_ wolves.”

Stiles exhales a sigh of relief. “Thank god.”

“ _Not_ thank god,” Lydia snaps. “Thank _us_. He would have noticed eventually, and he would have seen you standing in the middle of the room, gaping at Mrs. McCall like a dead fish.”

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” Stiles hisses, feeling the world drop out from under him. “You _know_.”

“That you have the hots for Mrs. McCall?” Erica asks, snorting. “Yeah, bud. We got that.”

This isn’t good. This is, in fact, very bad. Very, very bad. This is _horrible_. 

Because now they know, and they’re going to judge him. They’re going to tell him what a pervert he is for liking Scott’s mom, like he doesn’t _know_ it’s fucked up to be panting after the woman who practically raised him through puberty. They’re going to remind him that Scott is his best friend, and that if Scott finds out about Stiles’ crush, he’s going to be disgusted by it. That he’ll feel betrayed and confused, and he won’t want Stiles to come around the house, around Melissa, anymore. Then there will be this void between them, an elephant in all their rooms to ignore, and Scott will eventually give up on trying to make things work, and then Stiles will truly be alone. 

And of course, they’re going to convince him that he needs help, and that he shouldn’t be around Melissa again until he’s recovered.

In essence, they’re going to tell him all the things he already knows, and he’s never going to be able to look either of them in the eye ever again.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Erica says, taking over his field of vision. His narrow field of vision. Oh. Okay. He’s panicking. “Breathe, Stiles. Breathe with me. In, two, three, four, out, two, three four. Again, in, two, three, four, and out, two, three, four….”

Stiles focuses on her voice and tries to breathe in time with her. His lungs feel locked, like they don’t want to let him breathe, but he pushes through it. He takes several slow, deep breaths until the darkness around the edges of his vision starts to fade.

“There you go,” Erica says, uncharacteristically soft. “It’s okay. You’re okay, Stiles.”

“Sorry,” he stammers, rhythmically clenching and relaxing his tingling hands. He can feel the chill of sweat on his upper lip and temples. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Lydia says, looking concerned. “Are you okay?”

Stiles nods feverishly, wiping his clammy palms on his pants. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m okay.”

“What was that about?” Erica asks, guiding him to sit on the bed. She sits next to him, and Lydia comes around to stand in front of them both. “You just shut down.”

“I, uh,” Stiles stutters nervously, “I… you _know_.”

Lydia frowns at him for a moment. “Yes. We know. And?”

“And….” Stiles sucks in a deep breath, puffs it out. “What are you going to do about it?”

Erica trades a look with Lydia. “We’re not going to _do_ anything.”

“We just wanted to get you out of there before there was a scene,” Lydia says. “And we wanted you to know what you were doing, so that you could avoid making another scene in the future.”

“What did you think we were going to do?”

Stiles swallows around the dryness in his throat. He wishes he had a Xanax, or a half of an Ambien, or one of Ivy’s cocktails. He presses his fingertips into his eyes—he needs to stop wanting to rely on drugs. He’s supposed to be getting _better_. “Tell me how wrong it is,” he rasps from behind his hands. “Tell me to stop. Like I haven’t already tried.”

“It’s a great dress,” Erica says, nonplussed. “I get it.”

“No,” Lydia says, voice sounding far off, as if she’s thinking hard. “No, it’s not the dress.”

“It kind of is,” Stiles admits.

“Only kind of,” Lydia returns, voice sharpening into focus. “But there’s more to this than that, isn’t there? This isn’t new.”

Stiles drags his hands down his face, wanting to sink into the floor and never return. “No.”

Lydia and Erica exchange another look, this time for longer. Lydia raises an eyebrow, Erica shrugs, and Lydia nods. “Okay. We’ll help you.”

Stiles blinks at them, wondering if he’s having another panic attack, and maybe losing time this time. “Help me… what, exactly?”

Lydia smiles angelically. “Seduce Melissa McCall, of course.”

Erica shrugs nonchalantly. “Duh.”

* * *

One very complicated talk later, Stiles walks out of Derek’s bedroom, head feeling like it weighs about three hundred pounds. Out of all possible scenarios, he never expected anyone to _encourage_ his feelings for Melissa. Certainly not anyone who knew him as well as Erica and Lydia. 

It feels like hours have gone by, but judging from the unchanged light coming in through the window, it hasn’t been very long at all. Amazing, how much a few minutes can change someone’s life.

He now has—well, he’s not sure what to call them. Confidants? Cheerleaders? Allies?— _support_ in the quest to win over Melissa McCall, and fuck, if that’s not something he _ever_ expected to say. 

Actually investing himself in pursuing Melissa is something he’s never even considered before. His crush has always been a nuisance, an embarrassment, like a funny birthmark he has to hide because it’s shaped like something inappropriate. It’s always been something he’s avoided. He can’t even wrap his head around the idea of embracing it.

But that’s what Lydia and Erica want him to do. The way they see it, Stiles is an adult (barely) who knows what he wants, and what he wants is a consensual, happy relationship with another adult. They make it sound so easy, so _normal_ , and maybe it’s because Stiles is desperate, or broken, or a little tipsy from the eggnog, but he believes them.

Erica and Lydia don’t press Stiles for details on what the hypothetical relationship would entail, which is fine by him; he has no idea what he would do with Melissa if he could have her. But regardless of the finer points, they think he should open himself up to the possibility of a _something_ with her. Which is _crazy_.

Stiles heads for the eggnog but thinks better of it. He reaches for a water bottle instead, chugging the whole thing in one go. If he’s doing this, he’s doing it clear-headed. No more hiding. 

He can feel an odd energy thrumming in his veins, a building tension dancing up and down his arms, making his feet bounce, his back straighten, his lips pull back.

He knows what this feeling is. He’d forgotten what it felt like. 

He’s going to win over Melissa McCall if it’s the last thing he ever does. And it very well might be, but fuck, if Stiles doesn’t want to try it anyway.

He smiles, then grins, then laughs. 

It’s _joy_.

* * *

Later, after the presents have been opened, the eggnog drunk, the food plates cleared, Melissa pulls Stiles into the kitchen while other members of the pack are filing out the door. He follows her contentedly, knowing nothing will happen, but knowing eventually, sometime, somewhere, something _might_ happen.

Once they’re in the kitchen, she turns around to face him and bites her lip. “I got you a present. Something I didn’t think you’d want everyone to see.”

Stiles is too happy to be confused or concerned, too blissful to wonder what on earth Melissa McCall would want to give to him but hide from the others. “Yeah, sure. Okay.”

She reaches into the pocket of her (wonderful, beautiful, life-changing) Santa dress and pulls out a small box, offering it hesitantly. Stiles takes it from her and opens it. Sitting inside is a small, shining, silver spoon.

“Your dad called,” she explains, fidgeting at the edges of Stiles’ periphery. “He told me. Not everything, but… enough. I hope it’s okay. I just… I wanted you to know you always have a home here. You always have love.” 

Stiles stares down at the spoon, pristine and perfect, feeling like time itself has stopped. He feels stuck, disbelieving even though the spoon is right there in front of him, unmistakably real. He traces the edge of the handle with shaking fingers.

He wants to kiss her so badly. He wants to wrap her up in his arms and let the feeling in his chest explode until it radiates out of him like sunlight. But he doesn’t. He can’t. Not yet.

He carefully places the lid back on the box. The words, when they come, aren’t quite what he wants to say. One word off. But it’s okay. _Soon._

“I love it.”

**Author's Note:**

> I freaking LOVE crostinis. But damn, they do cronch, don't they?
> 
> If you liked what you read, please consider checking out the other work in this series, [What the Hell Is This, Baywatch?](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9514868/chapters/21517088), for some much-needed follow-up on Stiles' Very Good and Not at All Flawed Plan to Seduce Melissa McCall. There are hijinks, lowjinks, and the occasional mediumjinks.
> 
> The holidays are a tough time of year, and 2020 has been a particularly cantankerous bitch. If you or someone you know is having a hard time, I thoroughly recommend the services of [BetterHelp](www.betterhelp.com), an online counseling platform that pairs you with a licensed therapist for a relatively cheap price. I started using BetterHelp in the summer, and I was amazed by how easy it was, and how flexible my therapist was with my schedule. You can also always call the Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration at 1-800-662-HELP or the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-TALK. 
> 
> Please leave me a comment down below - I'd love to say hi! :)


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